


Turn Around

by missyvortexdv (Purpleyin), Purpleyin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-08
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-01 15:52:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purpleyin/pseuds/missyvortexdv, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purpleyin/pseuds/Purpleyin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock thinks dating should be simple enough, Molly proves him wrong. Written for Nocturnias' challenge: “Sherlock decides he wants to try a girlfriend. Molly is the logical choice. But she rejects him. He has to win her.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's All About Timing

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: Up to end of S2 
> 
> Betaread by the lovely Nocturnias. This is set about a year after TRF, after his return with things back to normal. Based on a challenge Nocturnias gave over on Tumblr (I'm Purpleyin over there too) of “Sherlock decides he wants to try a girlfriend. Molly is the logical choice. But she rejects him. He has to win her.”

It was a quiet morning in the lab, wherein March idly turned over into the first Monday of April during her nightshift. Sherlock had sat examining slides silently for 4 hours before he decided to drum up a conversation.

"Molly," he started, said somewhat slowly. She'd almost call it little hesitant if she didn't know him better. If there's a pause it's for effect, not that she knew why he'd want to appear so. "I have a proposition for you - I want us to have dinner."

Dinner. Oh, how she had dreamed of this once upon a time: and long ago realised fat chance she'd have it. In that light she took it in the only way she could, so she now managed a deadpan and casual reply.

"I'm not hungry, and I think breakfast would be more accurate."

"I'm not talking a packet of crisps right now. I mean dinner properly. A…date."

He sounded a tad exasperated at her obtuseness – she noted it nicely mirrored his deflection of her asking him to coffee over a year ago - but she suspected that the last word was still followed by a winning smile. Yet she resisted and didn't turn to verify the prediction.

"I'm not in the mood, Sherlock."

"For a date? When might you be? I'm fairly flexible on the details as long I'm not working at the time -"

She glanced sideways from her own microscope, sending him her most chilling glare. For once she had no appetite to decipher his blatant manipulation tactics.

"For your mind games. If you want something simply **ask** for it."

He huffed back at her. "I'm doing exactly that already. I'm _asking_ you for a **date**."

"And why would you do that, hmm? why would you ask  _ me _ on a date? Why now? Isn't that the question I'm meant to be asking in return."

"Fine, I shouldn't have expected you'd accept without an explanation. I will happily oblige with the answer. As you are probably unaware, I have for a good portion of my life eschewed affection, physical contact; considered them a needless distraction to my cases. But recent developments have made me question the assumptions I've made. As far as potential suitors go you are a logical choice. You are intelligent, you already know me, you put up with my eccentricities -"

"I do, don't I. Well, even if I entertain the frankly ridiculous idea you mean what you're saying, you should know I'm been rethinking stuff lately too and you might find I'm not so willing to put up with your… _shit_ …anymore."

"Really, Molly, bad language does not become you."

"That's what you take from that? Honestly Sherlock, don't you have anything to say for yourself?"

Molly sighed, shielding her tired eyes, before hazarding a look at her watch to see how much longer she might need to suffer this line of inquiry. At least she had less than half an hour to go before her shift was over.

"I think I've said all I need to say. Do you or do you not want to be go out with me?"

She stared hard at him, evaluating his cool gaze that betrayed no emotion. Being asked out by Sherlock Holmes felt more like a stressful business transaction than a flight of fancy; that alone might have been enough to put her off if she hadn't had the lucky epiphany, the sudden flash that pinpointed the relevant fact she'd already consumed. Another glance at her watch confirmed it, relieved she'd figured it out finally. Never trust anything that seems too good to be true.

"No. I . Do. Not."

"What? Why not?"

He was doing such a good job acting confused about it, though there was no guarantee it wasn't true. Was he so arrogant he assumed she'd never cotton on, nor refuse for any other reason, thus was genuinely thrown off balance by it?

"Because I'm not an idiot, that's why not." She stood up, desperate to put distance between them and keep her defiance, "Try pulling this stunt on someone even less observant than me, I'm sure it won't take long for you to find someone gullible enough."

He stood up as well, taking steps to follow her, but never quite caught her up, wary of her movement.

"I don't understand. This is no stunt. I don't get the sudden change of heart."

"Heart? Ha, don't presume to know anything more than my primal reactions. Those you might be able to see, pupils dilating, things like that, things I can't control. Stupid biology. But you're frankly useless at determining complex emotional states unless they're good motivation for murder."

"Perhaps if you get any angrier we'll start to understand one another better in that case," Sherlock spat back caustically, attempts at politeness being dropped. She was getting to him. Good.

“Are you actually wishing I was more like a murderer? You truly know how to flatter a girl. I suppose your obsession with death and murder's actually why you're proposing I'm a good candidate, I work with dead people all day, not quite normal Molly, makes me just about right for you. "

"Your profession is indeed one reason I feel we would be suited to each other. Apart from the continued perks, there is -"

"Stop! I don't want to hear anymore of your feeble rationalisations of this farce. That’s the problem with you, Sherlock. You never know when to just shut the hell up. I would have thought you'd had enough fun within the first 30 seconds of this, but then I suppose I didn't play enough into it for you to get your kicks.

"I don't understand, honestly -"

"You've gone too far this time. You're forewarned, don't toy with me again.”

With that Molly stormed out, simultaneously on a high from getting all her pent up rage out, and deeply disappointed he would stoop so low for a cheap and vicious thrill. The joke would be on him next time he wanted any access for experiments - Lestrade would simply have to get her bosses to order her to help and good luck to him at justifying any more body parts for use at 221B.

 

\---

 

Behind her Sherlock stood half out the door, watching her stalk away, looking decidedly miffed.

Of all the permutations of "the talk" he'd estimated were likely to occur, none had gone remotely in the direction of reality. None of his prepared responses had been adequate, instead they were conversely inflammatory to Molly. The result was not simply not-as-desired, it was anomalous and the situation had gone downright off-target.

**To: J Watson**

**Sent: 2013-04-01 05:43**

_Took your advice. Went horribly. May have lost access to lab and/or bodies for experiments. I blame you. SH_

 

**From: J Watson**

**Received: 2013-04-01 05:45** __

_Just what I needed, a Sherlock wakeup alarm. Thanks for that. My advice was fine, your timing sucks. Bet it's more primary school info you've deleted, but don't you ever pay attention to what day it is?_

 

"Oh for all that is - April 1 st ! Damnable day!"

"MOLLY!" He called down the corridor as he sprinted along its dimly lit space, knowing full well the chance she'd wait up or turn back if she heard him were nominal.

No sign of her in the cafeteria and upon investigation the locker room was empty. He was too late, she was on her way home. It was better this way; she would get some sleep, cool down, calm her emotions. Then he could tackle her more reasonable self head on later today.

 

 


	2. It's The Thought That Counts

 

A day and a half later, notably no longer in any danger of April Fool's impinging, Molly heard a rap-a-tap-tap on the door to the mortuary. Sherlock knocking was very unlike him, an attempt to be nice. She didn't bother looking up as he entered but she found she could smell him far before she saw him anyway, curiosity kicking in and forcing a glance upwards – a sickly perfume accompanied the bouquet held up directly in front of him so there was no mistake she'd see his gift before she saw his face. 

"You're giving me flowers?"

"A traditional I'm sorry present."

"Hmm. _Lilies._ ” 

She bit her lip, wondered what to say exactly, and then tried to smile gratefully despite her misgivings. A tactic that obviously failed judging from his reaction, as with that he dropped the offending item on her desk nearby and quirked an eyebrow, wordlessly and patiently (for him anyway) waiting for an explanation. 

Even in silence his undivided attention was unnerving and there was no mistaking the expectation he had that she spit it out, whatever it was that bothered her; he was polite about it with a lack of words - and thereby lack of his special kind of terse factual insults - but in no other way as his eyes bore into her in an intimidating manner, fingers flexed fidgeting with removing his gloves at his side and she could sense too the edge of exasperation to his breathing.

“It's just that, lilies... I don't like the smell really,” she said with a glance at them that was as much to avoid his own gaze, “and it's not a usual choice to give a girl, I mean, uh, a woman. Like me. Not to mention, _traditionally_ they're meant for...well, for a funeral."

"You work in a morgue." 

She looked back at him squarely at that and raised an eyebrow, faulting his train of thought there, and he narrowed his eyes back at her. Not exactly touché as he would have liked, she imagined. It was a nice gesture overall but the implication she should be happy to get anything, no matter how ill thought out irked her. He should've been able to apply those myriad investigative skills of figuring out a more appropriate floral tribute – he was being something she hadn't ever expected of him, lazy.

"Doesn't make me dead or grieving. And...I don't like them. Apology not accepted."

All of sudden he leaned in and her heart raced. W _hat is he doing?_ Soon enough she sensed the familiar trajectory, aiming for a kiss to the cheek. Molly swerved last minute, ending up stumbling against the slab to her side. The result was the same; his attempt blocked, no matter how clumsy she came to it. 

"Whoa, no, Sherlock! You don' just get to do that. A peck on the cheek doesn't make it all better."

"More, then? I could go a full on pash on the lips if you prefer?" he said devilishly, causing her to blush, though she was angry enough to only be put off momentarily.

"That's even less funny than the other night's _hilarious_ affair," she said, moving away to clean up her instruments. Fortunately he took the combined signs to back off and repositioned himself on the other side of the table at least.

"Oh, if only it had been an affair. I seem to recall you turned me down. And it was decidedly not a joke."

"Then why were you apologising?" 

"Because I didn't realise the significance of the date. John corrected me on my bad timing. I now understand your reaction, as woefully wrong a conclusion as it was."

There was a series of clangs from metal hitting metal as she roughly shoved scalpels into the sterilisation tray much less carefully than normal. 

"I would've thought John had taught you better than to insult people during an apology. It's not so good."

"More than a bit not good I'm sure, but you  **were** wrong."

His tone was accusatory and he rested his hands against the edge, towering in across the space. What does he expect, for her to apologise in return? The behaviour felt part intimidation, part temptation, a plan to draw her in, which simply fuelled her dissatisfaction with him further.

"It didn't seem an absurd conclusion at the time. Even now that you've explained I'm not sure I can believe it. It wasn't very...you."

"Surely by definition  _ anything _ **I** do is  _ very _ **me** ."

"Only if you want to do it," she quipped, fixing him with a cold look before taking the tray over to the side, a convenient excuse to get further away. She wouldn't let him win this one.

"You suspect I am being insincere in my intentions."

"How astute of you. Let me ask you this - why the sudden change of heart? Why the sudden  **addition** of a heart?" 

No sooner than the words were out of her mouth she regretted them, just a bit, having been harsher than she intended. After all it's not true he has  **no** heart. She knows that. However calculating he was, Sherlock was still human, not a psychopath or a sociopath like some say. She knows from what he had done to save his friends that he does care in his own manner, for Ms Hudson, for John, for Lestrade even and for her some small amount.

"I explained before. You were listening weren't you?"

"Yes, I was, but to be honest it seemed very arbitrary, convoluted. Sherlock playing at being normal, trying to do what everyone else with their little minds does. I can't see why you want to, unless it's research or like suddenly you don't believe it would be a worthless distraction to bother being nice to actual people. I don't get it."

"Oh, it _would_ be a distraction,” he turned, paced back quickly and she could feel him hovering behind her, close enough to sense the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed in deeply several times, “For once I'd like to welcome such a thing.” 

Then he was gone, weight near her lifted and footsteps indicating his pacing equally as fast away from her in that blink of an eye. Molly had to remind herself to take a decent breath in suddenly.

“Besides, I've had other, less healthy, distractions in the past. The key is management of time, one thing at a time. Case, date, case, date but never a case and a date! And do not kid yourself that me dallying in romance would be in any way normal and little and… _dull_."

She flipped around on the spot, having mostly regained her courage, though bracing her arms against the metal trolley behind her for support regardless, "You know you're not exactly winning me over with words like dallying and the implication you'd drop me like a...a...hot rock, at the slightest hint of a mystery."

She watched him slide about the room, noting his brief inspection of each end of the third body bag, the same she assumed as he had been doing to the others as she stood facing away, unsuccessfully disengaged from his conversation that she found herself drawn back to. 

He'd been fiddling with her corpses, not inspecting them – though no doubt in the brief intervals he has deduced more than half the pathologist's in the building would have found out from a full examination – just looking, something to occupy his eyes, his brain, make it at least appear his attention is not fully on her. Either this conversation was boring him or he didn't want her to realise it was of any real importance. There was also the possibility it was both. There was a thoughtful delay before he answered her as he walked back up to her, like he wasn’t prepared for her protestation.

"You could always join in on the cases from time to time if you felt deprived of me. It's evident you like analysis."

"It's not a matter of presence, much as I like yours," she said. At that he smiled, closing in, invading her personal space in a not exactly unpleasant way and she struggled to keep her composure, "It's - it's attention. Yours...strays too easily."

His reply came rapidly, spoken confidently. "I would never be unfaithful" 

She laughed, leaning to one side, breaking his spell on her, "Not with a live person anyway."

He sighed at her retort and stood up as straight as possible, peering down at her. "I am who I am. I live for my work. Take it or leave it." 

She stood up straighter herself, trying to ignore how he towered over her and maintain confidence despite her lack of stature. All she needed to do is keep her willpower intact a little longer.

"I thought we already established that I **was** leaving it." 

_That is the end of that_ , she thinks, extracting herself quickly from between him and the trolley and praying he would leave her be as she got on with her job.

* * *

Sherlock was more than a bit perplexed at the reconfirmation that she wouldn't go out with him. Her body language said as ever that she should want to; it appeared, unluckily, for him she was exhibiting ruling of reason and faulty logic over her emotions regarding him for once.

" _ Nothing _ in this discussion serves to sway your opinion? Despite your knowledge I was in fact not playing a prank?"

She hesitated, as if she might concede a point to him, but kept quiet in the end, slipping to the opposite side of the room to get new gloves and pretending to focus on the next body on her schedule. He could tell she was controlling her breathing, trying to stay calm, keep up appearance of being collected when actually she was nervous, uncertain, the ground she was defending crumbling away from her. 

The irony was not lost on him that now **he** considered it correct that they pursue a relationship, at least experimentally, **she** did not any longer; didn't jump at the chance as he had envisaged. Dare he admit, as he'd hoped. This set back put him off slightly from the whole idea, except that he now, as ever, was unable to dismiss a challenge that captured his imagination. 

He stopped his tirade there, disliking the hollow victory it would mean if he wore her down, abandoning his usual method of taking advantage with proximity. What he wanted this time was to impress, to wow her with the genius of his suggestion such that she complies due to reason alone. Molly will understand sooner or later; he merely required the right words and/or the right actions to make her see sense again.

 


	3. Trying Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock likes a challenge, much to the exasperation of John and Molly alike.

He trudged up the stairs, struggling to get to the landing before the handle of the pithy plastic bag gave in to the weight it contained. What this latest trip had taught him was cheap supermarkets were all very well and good as long as the discount gained wasn't outweighed by spillage due to shoddy packing. As he stooped low to rest the bags on the floor whilst his fingers recovered circulation, he groaned, having spotted a haphazardly discarded Tesco's bag caught under the partially open door.

“Sherlock, have you been _shopping_? Couldn't you wait for the Angel Delight? I thought I told you I was getting stuff this morning.” 

“Don't worry, John. I highly doubt there was an duplication in purchases, unless you've been harbouring strange tendencies I'm am somehow unaware of.”

He tested the strain on the bags, lifting them up a few centimetres. His fingers were pinched painfully but it wouldn't do much good to wait, he did have other things to do today and Sherlock was hardly likely to help. He lugged them upwards, bracing his elbows against his sides, and kicked the door wide open.

“What did you want with Angel Delight anyway, did you really want to eat it or am I going to find some disgusting concoct-”

John Watson had entered the lounge of 221B Baker Street to many strange sights over the last few years. Today's scene topped a good lot of the strangeness he'd witness before, though possibly not the time with the donkey. At least this wouldn't get Mrs Hudson threatening to throw them out.

There was a nest of W H Smith bags, as well as some from the local corner shop, the contents of which were sprawled over an area several metres squared surrounding Sherlock, with little differentiation of what was floor or furniture as long as the items rested in place.

“Don't tell me, you've bought out half a news agents.”

“Research.”

There was something odder about this picture than he'd first realised. John scanned the magazine piles more intently and felt more intrigued – largely bright busy covers with smiling faces staring up at him. The titles he half-recalled from the doctor's surgery waiting area –  _ Elle, Red, Marie Claire, Glamour, Cosmopolitan _ , the list went on; mixed in with  _ FHM, Men's Health _ and a few other disparate choices like  _ The Astronomer _ . The overwhelming theme was women's magazines.

“This goes a bit beyond your usual keeping up with new releases for identification and classification purposes. Is there a new case? One where we need to go undercover in a publishing company...”

“No and no.”

Of course, this was Sherlock so no answer would be given to elaborate where he felt it unnecessary. John was going to have to pry it out of him, for the sake of his own sanity if not to ensure Sherlock's was still intact.

“Then what is this all about?”

“I am studying popular dating theory. Your advice for Molly bombed, though the more I read of these _rags_ the more I suspect there is a thread of common _non_ -sense normal people subscribe to. None of this will do.”

John pushed a pile off the sofa, taking a seat, at which Sherlock scowled but made no attempt to catch the cascade of glossies towards him.

“What exactly were you aiming for?”

“For her to accept my proposal.”

John blinked, digesting the statement, wondering if the day really had taken such a bizarre turn already. Hard to know with Sherlock sometimes.

“What, wait, you proposed?!” 

“No, _no_! A proposal, not that sort.” 

John let out a silent thank you.

“I asked her to dinner, on a date, again. Very standard. She conceded I wasn't joking. Won't accept my apology. Doesn't believe I'm sincere.”

“And are you?”

Sherlock glowered at him over the top of  _ Ok!  _

“What, I can't ask? I like Molly. I'm not going to help you screw her over because it suits a plan of yours.”

From behind the flimsy paper Sherlock gave a deep sigh of frustration.

“What is it with people wanting explanations? Nobody trusts my intentions. You, Molly. I don't know why I bother, am I that unconvincing?”

“No, you’re entirely _too_ convincing -when you want to be. That's problem. Like the boy who cried wolf. So good at faking interest it's hard to know when you mean it.”

Another sigh.

“If you find this all so tedious why are you bothering?”

“Oh, I'm not giving up now, no, no, no,” There was a slightly manic finger waggle emerging from the pages still held up, “I can't let you both think you're **right**. It just won't do.” 

“And you wonder why I'm questioning your intentions...I'm off to work.”

“Too early.”

“I have paperwork to do.”

“Like any rational person you hate paperwork.”

“Yes, yes I do. However right now I'd do anything to escape this madhouse.”

“Good, you can go to the library for me. There's a list on the desk next to my laptop.”

“Fine. I'll get them, but I hope you realise this isn't one of things you can learn rote from some book...”

“Please refrain from telling me I need to get in touch with my emotions or get all 'touchy feely'. What I need is a plan and what I need first, in order to formulate it, is data.”

John scrunched up the note and shoved it in his pocket. All the data in the world Sherlock wanted probably wouldn't help him, not when he was ignoring the data he had - Molly had said no, and for good reason he assumed.

 

* * *

 

The quest – and the accompanying question of why Molly had said no - doesn't consume him, unlike Sherlock, who can be spied plotting any time he's not on a case these days. John does, however, come back to the notion on occasion when he sits briefly idle with his coffee in the clinic in the infrequent lulls. Or with his tea at the flat when it's more frequently empty.

Such an odd notion it is too; Sherlock winning over Molly, Sherlock _needing_ to and of Sherlock being willing to as well – and he's curious if it'll work or if Sherlock will fail for once, fall flat on his face with this complex situation requiring social skills that last more than five minutes of faking or sucking it up.

John intentionally keeps his distance from 'the scheme' as he considers it, plausible deniability for whatever goes on, but he catches snippets of Sherlock's puzzling over Molly.

John can't ignore Molly's uncharacteristically irritated greetings when they visit the morgue, and it's hard not to lament the chocolates he once saw binned by her desk, especially when he could tell she'd actually wanted them and they were dumped on principle, a clear message to Sherlock.

Plus John's the one carrying the obscure medical books returned with overly polite thank you's by her and accepting petri dishes, assorted vials of glutenous substances, almost luminescent flasks of liquid and body parts returned to 221B with a look of questioning terror (and he doesn't know where Sherlock got the latter either, if not at St Bart's).

Then there's the receipts. He goes through them, and the credit card bills, once a month ostensibly to match up expenses to cases though that's easier said than done with Sherlock's erratic requests and spending habits to match.

The assortment is as unexpected as ever, yet he finds himself wondering lately which could relate to Molly.

The 5hrs in a recording studio?

£234.59 at Waterstones? He hasn't spotted any more relationship books, mind you hasn't spotted any more books at all nor been asked to fetch them from the library after the first few times.

Lessons at Mdme Fifi's? Dancing ones, he hopes but really who knows and even then he might not want to know what kind of dancing, guessing leaves him with too many disturbing mental images.

He sees an entirely new look on Sherlock's face at times as well, a special epiphany parallel to the work, a sly eureka moment unrelated to and yet tending to be inspired by the current conversation at the time, often prompting urgent scribbles in a notebook and fevered scrolling through phone apps that John has learnt not to interrupt. As fast as it occurred it would be done with, Sherlock's keen mind slotting it back in place and getting on with what was really important to him.

And he's learnt there's an accompanying expression, that appears maybe hours or days afterwards, a dark brooding flare of frustration. John doesn't count the number of follies against Molly, but they're racking up. Every time he knows what's happened when he recognises that reaction; they don't work and Sherlock doesn't stop, can't stop. Changes his approach, changes his speech, changes his clothes to be more appealing and less intimidating, whatever works. Sherlock is a master of disguise and acting when he wants to be but nothing is swaying Molly.

Their sense of normality is skewed – it used to be just the work, and his day job, evenings of Chinese takeaways and Angelo's, and Mrs Hudson over for tea and cakes. Now there's this other theoretical unbirthed aspect looming in Sherlock's life, and by extension his, and it's getting painful, waiting for it to be or not be. Even though they all know by know the answer is not. Sherlock isn't willing to accept it, an affront to his multitude of talents that he's unable to convinced one woman, who used to fawn over him for Pete's sake, to give him more than the time of day – or lab results as it actually is. John did wonder if Molly really wasn't interested anymore or if she was simply revealing a stubborn streak equally as bad as Sherlock's, refusing him on principle.

It's all backwards and either Molly's some grand mastermind of love, drawing him ever closer or Sherlock is exhibiting his dangerously obsessive tendencies. Sherlock calls it all data collection - it's like an endless experiment, that everyone except him considers sort of fundamentally wrong.

There was something dually endearing and worrying that the man would not take that no for an answer. In all honestly he was leaning far more towards worrying as time went on. Sherlock was searching for an avenue of change, another route to the destination desired but John couldn't help feeling it was all about the chase, the exhilaration of getting to that end point. Just what would Sherlock do if he succeeded? Maybe that was the doubt that was seeded in Molly's head too, the rightly logical criterion for refusal.


	4. Or Something Like It

It was four weeks later that John returned home wondering if they had been either burgled or partially evicted – his money would be on Sherlock alone - without their knowledge. Gone were the tatty stacks mixed with paper and books. Hidden away were the trinkets, notes and experiments normally scattered all across the desks, tables and often the floorboards too. 

The place looked like a showroom - dinner places laid out on a long elegant black table foreign to their flat, with napkins folded under polished cutlery, soft lighting from a plethora of candles spotted about the place - and as he crossed the threshold he caught a heady aroma of an unidentified dish that made him salivate. This was not normal. 

“Mrs. Hudson, are you about? Have you been on a cooking, cleaning...housekeeping spree or something?”

He stepped towards the kitchen and got a shock as Sherlock popped out unexpectedly, saucepan in hand and a spoon raised up.

“Try this.”

It was an order and given the delicious scent he didn't wish to refuse. Self preservation did dictate he delay until he had more information, no matter that it looked rather like Bolognese.

“What exactly is it?”

“Hopefully delicious, but I am hardly an experienced purveyor of home-cooked delights.”

John stared him down, tilting his head subtly, increasing the space his mouth was from the proffered unidentified stuff incase Sherlock got any ideas about forcing a second opinion.

“Not the information I was looking for, Sherlock.”

There was a twinge of annoyance evident, the spoon wavered almost imperceptibly, and yet Sherlock complied with the request.

“Non-toxic, unpoisoned, in some countries considered a delicacy. In short it's edible and nutritious.”

“You're not going to give me anymore info than that?”

“You don't want to know the precise details.”

“Offal?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and nodded sharply, clearly impatient for feedback and irked John cared about such trifling issues as where the meat came from.

“Just tell me it won't constitute cannibalism.”

“It won't, now taste,” the spoon loomed and John guided it to his lips, indelicately slurping the contents. 

“Wow. Good sauce. The...whatever it is, is a bit chewy. What's this in occasion of?”

“Chewiness can't be helped, consider it a characteristic of the food. It's a very healthy alternative and the dish will be a talking point for the dinner, a testament to the effort I've gone to. Some people also claim the protein in question increases libido fourfold.”

“Er, good, I suppose. Not that I need it. Sorry, what dinner is this?”

“You, me, Mrs. Hudson, that women she borrows her laptop from, your girlfriend and -”

“Molly?”

“Yes.”

It was a short sharp confirmation and the point at which Sherlock retreated to the kitchen. John leaned against the arch and watched Sherlock apparently fussing over the pasta solidity.

“I'd say how nice of you but I know you're only going to be doing this for one person's benefit really, and I don't mean Molly's.”

Sherlock continued to cook, fully focused on weighing out more spices precisely on the Salter digital scales that John sorely hoped had been disinfected first. 

“Also, might I add you have neither invited me, nor my girlfriend Amber.”

Sherlock flipped around briefly, spatula in hand, causing John to step back suddenly.

“John, would you like to come to a dinner party tonight? There: done.” 

Sherlock posed the rhetorical question as fast as humanly possible, leaving no room for an actual answer, pasting a tight forced smile on his face for John at the end. The whole thing was stated with definite insincerity, Sherlock typically rankled at the tedious social requirement inherent. He lost little time to it overall though, clearly more concerned with the four pans on the hob which he turned his attention back to rapidly. 

John stood calm and curious in the entrance of the kitchen. Exasperated too. Mind you, that was his normal state around Sherlock. He waited for an answer to other half of his indirect questions, expecting full well that his insufferable housemate wouldn't be able to resist rubbing his nose in how easy it probably had been to get it past him that he'd invited his never-before-mentioned girlfriend over. 

Apparently cooking held Sherlock's interest more than John anticipated. He really was putting a lot of effort into this.

“And...?” John prompted, after thirty seconds devoid of Sherlock's usual and unique brand of self-satisfied gloating.

“Amber, you invited yesterday afternoon. 3:43pm. Learn to check your messages more diligently. I could have said anything, I could have professed your love for her.”

John ignored the disparaging intonation of the last statement and focused on the more important matter at hand.

“How did you get into my phone this time - there's no password to guess, it's a gesture. I change it every week and hide my phone from you when I do it. Have you been spying on me?”

“Flawed security measure. Grease marks on the screen where your fingers trailed.”

“Oh.”

_ Damn _ . It seemed an all too mundane a detail that he felt he ought to have been able to predict. Of course it didn't differ greatly from any other observations Sherlock made in that they generally sounded reasonable and downright obvious when explained. How unobservant of him, yet again. Was there going to be any method of security good enough to ensure Sherlock stopped interfering with at least one aspect of his life? Probably not, considering people were flawed and by extension so were his attempts to keep Sherlock out of his files. They all failed - Sherlock cracked his passwords no matter what schema he used - and John would have given up already, if he didn't experience just the slightest thrill at trying to challenge Sherlock every time he tried out a new possibility. 

“Don't just stand there, John. Go get dressed, primp yourself. The guests will arrive in 17 minutes and I'm preoccupied. ”

“Ok-ay...fine. I'll roll with it, _as usual_.” 

Sherlock had no reply, absorbed in a thick tome of a cookbook, looking for all the world as if he was reverently reading some kind of holy scriptures. John pursed his lips, irritated but not terribly surprised at being ignored; naturally his compliance was a foregone conclusion to Sherlock. 

“So help me, this better not be as bad as that Christmas party turned out.”

John walked off, shaking his head to himself in disbelief.

 

* * *

  


A quarter of an hour later John opened the landing door to find three of the four women attending the impromptu event. Mrs Hudson and Amber were to his surprise animatedly talking about latest cricket results downstairs in the hall, and Molly was coming up the staircase.

“Mrs Hudson said to just come up...” 

“Yeah, sure. Here, let me take your coat,” he intoned politely, wondering too if this time she visited she'd have gone to too much effort. He hadn't got the impression she' entirely forgiven Sherlock for the misunderstanding and subsequent almost harassment on the matter of a date. John was genuinely surprised she'd agreed to come tonight.

As she shrugged off her jacket he noted she had on a simple, elegant necklace – probably a gift from a relative - and a modest deep purple top that was chirpier than her work clothes style but spoke of a desire to seem nonchalant nevertheless. He'd definitely spent too much time around Sherlock, it was getting impossible to not notice the little details about people.

“Thanks so much for the invite. I don't tend to go to many dinner parties and when you emailed the other day -. ”

“Hang on, I invited you?”

Molly looked a little mortified at the question, in addition to confused and he didn't blame her one bit. “Yes...Is everything alright? Did you forget? Am I not meant to be here?”

“No,” he instinctively replied to her first query, causing her look confused. He took her reaction in and cursed mentally, quickly correcting himself. 

“Er, I mean, yes. Yes” he said, with a comforting touch to the shoulder to reassure her and dually guide her further from the vicinity of the kitchen, out of prime eavesdropping range, “You're exactly where you're meant to be. I'm glad you've come, really, it's lovely to see you and there not be a dead body about, but I'm not sure if you'll be so glad you came. Or if there won't be a dead body in a while.”

Several expressions flitted across her face, realisation dawning, followed closely by what he guessed was intense irritation.

“It was Sherlock, wasn't it?”

“Yup.”

“But there _are_ other guests? Mrs Hudson and ...”

“Amber downstairs, my girlfriend, yes. Also Mrs. Turner from next door. ”

Molly let out a slightly strangled, nervous laugh and confessed, “For a second there I thought this was some kind of trick to get me to dinner alone here with him.”

“No, but I wouldn't assume it's innocent by far. This is Sherlock we're talking about and he's determined to change your mind.”

“I gathered that already. He keeps hinting at how _compatible_ we are whenever he visits. The stuff he comes out with makes me question my taste in men and...frankly, it's a little disturbing if...if it's how other men see me too.”

John smiled politely, not sure what to say to that, especially when he saw the hint of a small amused smile quirk her lips as she spoke.

“Plus, I think he's been pulling strings so I get the most interesting autopsies to do as well, which is fun. I'm not complaining exactly, except it smacks of favouritism, it's unprofessional; I don't need it. It wouldn't be so awful if I believed he wasn't just doing it to prove a point.”

“Want your coat back then?”

“What? Oh, no, I'm here now. Probably won't do any harm to stay and besides – mmm - that smells **so** good. Italian?”

John really, really hoped she wouldn't have cause to regret her decision to stay by the end of the night. 

“Your guess is as good as mine, ” he told Molly neutrally, as he considered the situation carefully, not simply speaking about the food.

If not for the promise of Amber's company, John suspected he would have been torn between the idea of fleeing far, far away - keeping a sane distance to this as he had every other 'test' of Sherlock's - and the temptation to watch the scene unfold on what could well be an utter disaster. 

As it was he didn't want to expose Amber to the idea the text wasn't from him; it would only add to the confusion that seemed very likely to arise from tonight. Now was not the stage in their relationship to get into the complexities of his flatmates social dysfunctionality.

Rubbernecking at the slow motion train-wreck of a courtship, it would be, then. 

Who knew what went on in the often half-demented mind of the world's only consulting detective. John wasn't convinced Sherlock himself knew lately either. 


	5. Resistance Is Futile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaread by lotl101 and Nocturnias (who gets extra thanks regarding a certain awkward Molly line near the end). Any remaining mistakes are mine. Dues to the lovely celeryy for motivation as well.

7:33pm. There was laughter drifting up the stairwell and through the wide open door. Loud laughter incongruous to any norm Sherlock knew about 221 Baker Street. Mrs Hudson was more refined in her vocality, chirpier if no less grating, and Mrs. Turner tended to be only lightly amused by any topic - far more prone to dull worryingly passive exclamations - meaning the person responsible for the hyena impression was none other than John's lamentable new girlfriend, Amber. In turn, meaning Mrs. Turner was late. 

The meal is carefully timed, there's a short twenty-minute window of optimum opportunity for them to sit, raise utensils to their unsuspecting mouths and experience what he has planned. Events like this were so delicately balanced it felt distasteful to him, the ability to disappoint that hinged around not him but them. He disliked the idea _anyone_ would sample his creations past their peak temperature - because temperature was paramount to the taste - he could, however, deal with the idea Mrs. Turner think him merely a moderate cook; as long as most of the guests knew the truth.

Sherlock stalked into the living room, in time to spy a look that passed between the two beings hidden away there, followed by John's protective lilt across Molly's facade when he broke up their subdued discussion with his entrance. Their secretive behaviour forced Sherlock to consider them co-conspirators in this absurd plot to deny reason to their shared corner of the world. Sherlock will show Molly he is right, and furthermore, he will show John he is right and everything will fall in place. This night ought to right his world, give him relief; they will finally _understand._ That neither of the persons he spends most time with in the world do is inherently wrong. They are both generally more observant than that, better at comprehension of facts than almost anyone else he interacts with is, or else why has he ever bothered with them? 

Surely,John should understand, or at least _get_ it. 'Getting it' is a wishy-washy admission applied only to John – it's that tense edge of understanding John is awfully and disturbing good at regarding his person, where John is unconscious as to the why but knows the importance and accepts it full heartedly. This he doesn't get though; this John's filters catch and say “Actually, Sherlock, no!” and John can't express why not any better than Sherlock can explain why it should be.

“John, herd up the other attendees will you.”

His flatmate glared at him but acquiesced, no doubt due to the desire to see his girlfriend in. If he'd miscalculated, it could be that John might seriously want to know what the cricket scores are, but he highly doubted it from studying the man's viewing habits for the last two and half years. The desires for sex and companionship are primary motivators in most actions after all. Just why John considered his company worthwhile when he held no promise of sex nor affection, Sherlock hasn't ascertained. Interactions often elicited terse moods in his flatmate; John tended to scorn roughly half his statements, making him seem hardly an enviable companion, unless the awe from the other half tipped the scale.

“Hey,” Molly said weakly, wrapping her arms around herself and shifting her feet. 

Hardly ever has anyone or anything eluded him for so long. It would probably be a surprise to practically everyone he knows that his latest mystery is the woman stood in his living room, demure and nervous in an aubergine blouse. His gaze travelled further down from the natural conversational resting level of head/shoulders, appraising the rest of her outfit, her loose black slacks almost concealing her kitten heels with light grey bow detail to one side. 

Molly was trying to appear casual, sticking to what could be deemed work attire to place her in the didn't-make-too-much-effort category, a nice implication which no doubt anyone else would believe. She should know it's transparent to some, like him, but then she had no reason to suspect he'd be here apart from the location, hence she gave herself, and any hope at her seeing him here, away. 

There were cat hairs on her lower trouser legs, yet not on the blouse around her chest in the range usually exhibited as someone who literally mollycoddled their cat prior to guiltily leaving it alone for the day – changed top after work. The heels lacked tell tale marks they should have from her habit of scuffing her feet when she writes reports at her desk had she _ever_ worn them at work – another post-work switch then. 

There was also the delicate pendant around her neck, but that was different; she fingers it, a comfort. One of the few items she had on all day. There's an attachment there, item of jewellery pseudo akin to a person, longing for the gift giver - most likely her father - and it screamed loneliness to him. Why then does she keep pushing him way? His mind boggled at the stupidity of her denial but he crushed the feeling deep down as unhelpful.

Lastly, he saw, his attention skipping back once more to her face, that she had put on makeup – the lightest traces of over-applied and washed off eyeliner, accompanying a wisp of mascara to widen her eyes (totally unnecessary given her frequently used expressions of surprise and uncertainty) and a touch of some white-purple glaze over the lips in an attempt to colour coordinate. He noted however the rosy blush, as she watched him uncomfortably, was entirely natural.

“The places looks...” she started, trailing off due to lack of vocabulary. He was used to wordlessness around him, though it was unusual for Molly to be so when neither staring at him nor considering his presence.

“Nice?” he prompted. It was John's word and Mrs Hudson’s word, betrayed on his lips and traitorously used he thought, the intonation grating against his psyche as he said it, so very _nice_ ly too. This nice is not his nice, a full scale - instead of degrees - away from _dreary_ and _hateful_.

“I dunno, it's...”

“Stylish,” he said definitively, fully prepared for her to close her mouth and start sweetly smiling with it, as she was prone to when caught pleasantly by surprise. Usually it was John who triggered that reaction, only rarely had Sherlock managed to tease a smile from her. Naturally he'd never intended to, had simply stated something her morbid humour interpreted as inappropriately amusing. Sherlock hadn't missed it exactly, but he'd been unable to issue anything of the sort once he'd started trying and failure to achieve one's intended result was horribly frustrating – it made him feel lesser. A shadow falling over him that was not deep and shrouded, mysterious, but dull and weak, exposing, _ordinary_. 

“It's kind of...” 

The continued search for words equalled not stylish. But it _was_ stylish. Crisp, rich, a perfect replica in composite of the details gleaned from the laboriously studied glossy images. He'd made sure. In which case stylish wasn't the point, wasn't the overriding factor to comment on according to Molly's brain. What did she see when she looked at this room if not time and effort presenting her with perfection?

“It's sort of...lost its character, hasn't it - where did the skull go?”

Well, that he should have seen coming. Works in a morgue, the skull should have been present same as usual. There should have been queries about it, a budding conversation he'd plucked out of existence with its removal. He'd gotten too involved in what the research dictated was correct for an eligible influential bachelor's version of a truly classy 'pad' and missed the most important consideration of what Molly would like. Candles in the skull? No. Too gothic. Orchids perhaps, in fuchsia to offset the darkness. Orchids in beakers to show the shared interest? 

“Sherlock?”

Too late for that now, he snapped out of his analysis and motioned to the head of the table furthest from the kitchen.

“Please, do sit down, Molly. The feast is imminent!” 

As if on cue, John strolled in casually, with two out of three other guests in tow, though a hint of anger was still evident behind his cheer and self-imposed politeness.

 

* * *

  


“The Pièce de résistance,” Sherlock said triumphantly almost to Molly alone, laying out several spoonfuls on her plate. 

This was where Mrs. Turner skilfully turned up, clearly having let herself in with her spare key, as he was serving the unspoken guest of honour and John was uncorking Molly' choice of wine attentively on the other side of the table. He resisted the urge to frown at her inexplicable timing; she'd managed to miss almost the entire of his menu announcement, forcing him to begin again. He took a deep breath in before brusquely delivering it in reverse.

“Mrs. Turner, what a _delight_. You are _just_ in time to partake in my humble little Italian feast.”

He's vaguely aware of John's correction in the background “ _Our_. Our feast, our party. Isn't that right, Sherlock?” as Sherlock forced maintenance of his smile and watched her move into position. She at least had the decency to sit next to Mrs Hudson's side as intended and not the other head of the table seat. He supposed it was a small mercy that she doesn't ruin the very deliberate mirroring and vantage point to Molly he's set up for himself. 

“Trippa alla bologna. A delicacy.”

“Just don't ask what's in it,” smarted John from the side, as he gripped the wine bottle between his knees, struggling a little. 

“Ground salt and pepper to garnish. Freshly grated Parmesan as well, should you feel the need to ruin the subtle interplay of tastes inherent in the dish already.”

 

The cork finally popped and Sherlock continued introducing the dishes solely for one guests benefit and that of John's ego too, no comment made on his new four minute record to do a task a monkey ought to be able to achieve in one or less.

 

“\- Panzanella, self explanatory by inspection of the dish. And here, as I've already explained to those who arrived earlier, is Gnocchi alla romana, traditionally served on Thursdays in Rome hence why -”

“Oooh, is that black pasta. I've never had black pasta,” came an even tone further up the table as Mrs. Turner inspected the squid ink tagliatelle.

And then 'quietly' to Mrs Hudson the woman uttered a completely unpredictable conclusion that caused several pieces of cutlery to be abused, one dropped with a clang to the floor and another squeaking across a plate, as the controllers hand slipped in complete surprise. 

“You didn't tell me you had, um, three..more than a pair as it were.”

Suddenly everyone else was pointedly not listening to the conversation on the left side of the table, which of course meant no one was paying heed to his diligently delivered information. He considered changing Agghiotta di pesce spada to informing them it's Spam alla turnere to see if they noticed. They were each of them rapt up in trying to understand the befuddling thought process that fuelled Mrs. Turner's topical professions. Mrs Hudson was clearly taken aback herself, an uncharacteristic pause before she replied, as she took in the bizarre thought presented to them all.

“Oh no, no, it's not like that. John's with Amber here,” Mrs Hudson said cheerily matter-of-fact about the correction. There was an atmospheric change at that, the other inhabitants of the table reacting to a perceived shift back to normality. The corner of his mouth quirked a little, unseen, taking in Mrs Turners furrowed brow, before she swept the rug from under the rest of the unprepared souls again with her next set of questions.

“What? Oh really, you don't mean...all of them...four, together like..?” 

John choked a little, apparently able to do so with no food in his mouth, and spilt the wine he was pouring out, on the table. Sherlock allowed himself a smirk at learning John for all he was now unphased at postulating over perceived homosexual relations is caught entirely off-guard by suggestions of polyamory. The red wine dripped through the fine slats of the table and Sherlock quickly pressed a napkin to Molly's lap, watching her jumpiness at the contact and intrigued by the pattern of dark red liquid that spread through the white cloth under his hand. 

As John regained composure, taking it upon himself to simultaneously clean up the other surfaces the wine is on and correct Mrs Turner - “No, really, we're not a couple. I mean, some of us are, but not all of us.” - Sherlock simply stared at Molly, his hand absentmindedly dabbing and pressing with the napkin as he catalogued her reaction. It was a pretence of helpfulness and they both knew it. Her face contorted as she battled with genuine need to clean up and politeness required of her as a guest versus the awkward uncomfortable giddiness he imagined the unexpected touch might inspire and the knowledge he's choosing to do so. The venture ended up as he expected, with Molly loosely batting him away and rushing herself to the kitchen to wash up elsewhere. 

He finally allowed himself to sit down and contemplated joining in the conversation – that's what they'll expect of him, isn't it. Making nice, adding something special to the evening, as if the food wasn't enough. John was still struggling to inform Mrs Turner as to the nature of their relationship, without giving anything off she could misconstrue and likely too with a keen mind to how the girlfriend of his will view this all. 

“John, if you'll allow me. John and I are a couple - ”

“Sherlock! That's not helping.”

“ - a couple of friends. We solve crimes together. He acts as my blogger, like a biographer. He's also an excellent conductor of ideas, my doctor and in a limited capacity my PA.”

“Limited eh? Like to see you keep the fridge stocked and the bills paid. He can't do the simplest of things, makes me wonder...”

“Not can't, John, I -” he interrupted brusquely, before he considered the audience and dialled back the biting retort on the tip of his tongue, “More that I forget, I have more taxing matters at hand.”

“But certainly not your tax return,” came a low muttering from John.

“As I was saying, John does a lot of things for me. Sexual relations is not one of them though, so I'm sure you'll understand that by many definitions of a non-platonic partnership we are not in one. As invaluable as John is to me whatever preferences I have are for another.”

John seemed exasperated at the bluntness, yet it was necessary with this one. Even so, Mrs Turner looked to Mrs Hudson for confirmation – irritatingly all she got was a shrug and non-committal look in return. Will those two women never learn when not to gossip? A poignant gaze upon Molly for an end to his monologue would have done some good there had she been in view but as it is he'd missed the opportunity to drop that not so subtle hint and get them working in his favour, turning his words effectively into more of a soliloquy to appease John's sense of rightness and in no uncertain terms deport the state of their lives to Amber. 

He'd have sighed if it were possible to do so inaudibly. The table was stony silent though as Sherlock loaded up his plate with small tasting portions of each dish and he could tell normality was going to be trying tonight. Molly rejoined them, along with many damp spots on her front, and he remembered the evening wouldn't be without success no matter what he had to put up with. He was considering a subject change of 'How's about that cricket match then?' or equally trivial inane thing when she gratefully broke the quiet that had settled.

“Wow, I don't think I've had such good Italian since...well, practically forever.”

Sherlock resisted saying 'I know'. It would only have annoyed her to remind her he'd been studying her. He's aiming for normalcy and charm rather than brilliance tonight.

She continued on in absence of any response, filling the table's awkward hush, “Family holiday. My dad was really enthused about the meats over there, he was a butcher, and my mum insisted on trying every starter too. All as sick as dogs the next day, not used to eating out. Still, it was amazing. We went back for more the day after. We ate so much we couldn't move. I thought it must be what being embalmed feels like. Well, if embalming wasn't just for dead people."

Mrs Hudson smiled a little used to odd sentiments in this house, the same as John, but Amber pointedly said nothing, picking at her Zucchine Ripiene aglia Asparagi. Mrs Turner was the one to surprise them all again, even he, by giggling into her napkin like it was the funniest thing she'd heard in ages. Molly's eyes lit up pleasantly and Sherlock suddenly didn't regret inviting the unknown agent of gossip from one door down.


	6. Just like a wrecking ball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaread by lolt101 and Nocturnias. Any remaining mistakes are mine. Also, many thanks to celeryy for motivating/bouncing ideas with me, especially for the basis of the ending dialogue which the precise form eluded me for so long.

_In vino veritas_ , or so Sherlock hoped. The wine was kept flowing and he did not restrict that to merely Molly. The best method to becoming level with lesser minds is to stunt his own, dull the blade and soften the edges of his wit with increased response times so that he might catch himself first. He was on his second glass and could feel John's eyes on him, questioning. He had been careful to limit his input for the most part to honest queries as they discussed news and weather and TV shows he'd never heard of.

Usually it would be such a strain to remain near mute, resisting the urge to correct grammar or facts and more likely direct the conversation to something vastly more interesting. About 400ml of 13% red wine on a barely there meal and it was...easier. He shuddered a bit at the idea it could be vaguely enjoyable to sit back and be awash with voices, snatches of these people, extra insight into their minds and their lives. There's things they said he couldn't guess, couldn't collate from the available data sources, which made it a touch informative too.

Now and then his attention refocused on what Molly was saying in amongst the chatter, when she joined in conversations here and there. Probably to John's, and her own, surprise Sherlock had not engaged her directly, instead letting her be. Partly that was because he didn't want to spook her and spoil the progress made so far and partly too because this stirred up an emotion in him he had not foreseen. It might be possible he'd missed this lately, her babbling on reassuringly about her life in the background. A given that had ceased to be now that she'd been avoiding or ignoring him as much as possible.

"Tell us how you met, dear. You and Sherlock."

An innocent question there, one which as he eyed up the asker, Mrs Hudson - who spied in his direction for a flicker, too quickly turning back to Molly - he reckoned was anything but.

"At the lab. Oh, I mean - We're not actually together though. Just friends."

"Really? What a shame. You'd make such a lovely couple, wouldn't they?"

Mrs. Turner nodded emphatically as she swallowed her imbibed alcohol down and Mrs Hudson's glance about the table got another nod from Amber. John sighed and pushed food around his plate, staying well out of this sort of discussion. Clearly he'd get no help there. Bless Mrs. Hudson though.

"I always thought you had a soft spot for him. More than, I should say, and it's clear, plain as day, he's the same."

Molly's mouth formed a small o, lost for words at the ambush and he found his own intended reply lost in his mind too, in the blurry haze that only comprehended what an uncanny thing for his landlady to say when she'd been no witness to anything he'd done these last few months. She could have no idea as to his intentions unless John had been moaning behind his back and even then that would hardly endear Mrs Hudson to his cause surely? Regardless, the vein of the conversation was getting too close to territory he disliked. This was one place conversationally that he could see wisdom in intervening, a slight redirect to be performed.

"We met at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, a number of years ago. Molly's a distinguished pathologist there and her help was instrumental to catching the Boxing Day killer."

"Oh I read about that in the paper!" Amber gushed, excited for a connection to the media for some reason.

"She was an odd one wasn't she, hiding them in shops. Right when there'd be everyone packed around, in the sales," Mrs Hudson deplored, shaking her head. "The poor sales people. Imagine opening a fridge and finding a...a...Well. Not nice, that's what it is."

However, his moment of charm was broken - Molly finally had her voice back, not content to leave this tale to him.

"You left out the part where you strode into my morgue, told me I was surprisingly short based on my handwriting and proceeded to wheel out one of the corpses when I went to the loo."

"Like I said, instrumental in solving the case." He flashed them a well-practiced adoring and grateful smile, "And I'm sure by now I must have made up for my...harebrained comment. We all do silly things, say silly things, when around people we like."

He wondered if she would challenge him on that maze of statements. He intentionally phrased it so as to smooth his past actions over with the implication he had liked her back then and had been nervous, causing him to babble on tactlessly. No doubt it would work on the others. The question was would Molly see through him?

Despite his desire to see the evening go well, as an example of what she could expect from him when he put his mind to being sociable and congenial, he felt the desire to have her call him out on the little things like this. Proof she was listening carefully, watching carefully, thinking about him and his actions, his words. Molly's eye narrowed as she stared down at her plate, mutely. So she wasn't going to refute it openly, but the small change of expression pointed to her knowing it was a carefully constructed set of lines, full of half-truths.

"What about you dears?" asked Mrs Turner, ever curious and pointing to Amber and John.

"Oh, it's a funny story actually. I work in a library and John came in a few months ago. I saw him standing in the relationship section and thought what's a good-looking man like that doing there. I didn't have the nerve to say anything, figured he must be taken already. I wished I had for weeks and then he came in again, standing in the same section looking perplexed. It's lucky for me he came in when I had my shift again. I figured I had to take the chance, so I walked straight up to him and asked him out and.."

"I said yes, of course I said yes. Look at her. She's beautiful _and_ brainy."

John took the woman's hand in his, genuinely grinning. Such a simple gesture, somehow powerful, effective to put a hand in another's. To trust. Amber smiled back. Sherlock frowned.

"And I got you off your fines. I'm sure that helped." Amber said with a small giggle.

Sherlock felt a surge of resentment stir in him. He'd only asked John to go to the library once in the last 3.4 months. John had no reason to be searching for more books on the topic of relationships several weeks ago, which meant Amber hadn't been lucky. No,John had been standing there deliberately, at precisely the right time. Their meeting, their basis for a relationship was orchestrated very subtly and cleverly by John, and in much less time than his own with Molly's, which was struggling to get off the ground. Sherlock eyed his wine in order to avoid glaring inappropriately at his housemate. It was a scratch of humiliation, unintentional he was sure and invisible to everyone else, but sickening to him none the less. Absentmindedly he churned the wine glass, causing the contents to swirl hypnotically until he knocked them back in one swig.

"Now, who's for dessert? Yes? Yes? Everyone? Good."

Plastering a fake cheerfulness on his face, he got up rapidly, ignoring how it made his head swim.

"Molly, I need your presence in the kitchen"

"What, why?"

His first direct request of her this evening and already he spotted how she turned to her classic deer in the headlights reaction, hostility missing along with some inhibitions.

"Wine. Need help picking out another."

"I think we've all had quite enough Sherlock"

There it was: John's subtle way of saying I think _you've_ had quite enough Sherlock. Luckily not everyone agreed, Mrs Turner raising her glass to show her requirement.

"Nonsense! See? Molly, if you will."

"Er, fine."

Sherlock stormed into the kitchen, fetching the large dessert dish from the fridge. He could feel Molly's eyes scanning the shelves for anything unsanitary, of which she would find nothing.

"Tiramasu?" she asked, peering around his side, getting closer to him than he would have thought she'd dare, "We ought to have dessert wine with this."

"Do we? I'll take your word for it."

"You already knew that," she said, as she started unravelling the foil over the top of her wisely selected bottle.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" he asked, nonchalantly, studiously ignoring the statement said as an accusation. He kept his eyes on the food even though he'd have liked to see her expression and sets about serving portions mostly equally. Slight less for himself, diverted to Molly's bowl. A little extra for the sweethearts that were the devious Mrs Hudson and Mrs Turner for playing into his hand at least the once tonight, with John and Amber moderate sized, claimably _healthier_ , portions

"It's been...pleasant. Nice even...still, this isn't going to work."

There was a pop of the cork, freed with ease, and she plonked the bottle on the island with a finality to match her second statement. But she _was_ faltering, not so adamant as on other occasions. She _thought_ it wouldn't be feasible but she _wished_ it were.

"You're starting to doubt yourself, your resolve."

"No, no I'm not. I said no, I mean no."

He looked up now, from his ministrations, examining her resolve, searching for those cracks in it to pry open.

"But _why_? Haven't I done enough to prove I am genuine in my desire to...to cultivate a relationship with you."

"You've done everything _except_ the one thing I asked you to do Sherlock. Drop it. Leave me alone. If you cared you'd do that for me. But you don't, not like that. You want to solve the puzzle and I'm it."

"Don't be so -"

"Silly? Foolish? Naïve? I'm done acting like that around you."

She turned abruptly, going as if to walk out but stopped at his fast rallied off reply.

"So, don't. I can get on that bandwagon. Goodbye fawning, hello common sense. Happy days all round. That's no reason to deny m- it's no use denying it. Denying yourself."

Molly peered back at him, eyes squinting briefly, a little like she was judging him. She traced her footsteps to her side of the counter.

"What if I did go there? Am I meant to trust my heart to you when you're unrelenting and calculated in your pursuit of me. Acting like...like I'm...prey or something, a problem to be solved. Actually no, it doesn't matter. Answered the question myself there, I think."

The island was the only thing between them and she was bracing herself on it, saddened by her own conclusion. He'd failed. His brain whirred with options on what to say and what to do and how to fix this. It came up empty, there was no procedure he could apply to her to change her mind. Infuriating. What has she done to him? Why was it even an issue? He hated this, he despised that she was out of his sphere of influence. Old tricks don't work, new tricks don't work.

She felt the same as she always had, he sensed it, just that there were new layers on top of it, dragging it down, sinking the once so blatant chance he could have had with her. This was her dream and she'd woken up. He pinched himself absentmindedly in association, wishing he could too.

Molly reached out to touch his hand, eyes full of compassion and he wanted to recoil at the warmth, withdraw. He couldn't find the strength to though and in that moment neither could he find the strength to hold himself back.

"Unrelenting and calculating hmm? Jim, ring a bell? You went on **three** dates with him and won't give me the **one**. How's the old adage fit? Once bitten, twice shy, or so I presume. Still, it's not my fault you have such dire taste in men. Hardly surprising though when all's said and done. After all according to you, I bear a striking resemblance to a man who was more interested in pieces of dead meat than his own daughter -"

There was a sharp breath, a flare in her eyes and flash of movement, followed swiftly by Sherlock drenched in what must have been a suitable amount of a light Muscat for the button he had expertly pressed. Licking his lips he discovered a nice caramel overtone to it. She's angry. He's angry. For once they're both of the same passion if not mind.


	7. The Meaning Escapes Him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, finally an update for this fic.
> 
> I have to make major apologies for the unintentional hiatus of this fic due to chronic medical issues. I'm starting to get a bit better lately and have been able to do more writing thankfully and finally the slow progress on the fic has come to fruition. For those following the story and still reading, thank you for your patience, and an extra thank you to those who encouraged me to write more – I was always intending to write more but it's always nice to know people still want to read it.

There's a splash from the kitchen, the cause of which John can reasonably guess having been eavesdropping on their conversation as he'd worked his way up the table tidying dishes into manageable stacks to carry through. Mrs. Hudson's eyes flash to the outline of Sherlock through the glass panel too, though she doesn't drop the conversation for a second, easily maintaining an uninterested demeanour all the better to listen with he suspects. Their conversation is interrupted only by Mrs. Turner's sudden recognition of the out of place noise.

“Gosh, the wine's flying everywhere tonight.” 

Then the illusion of normality is truly shattered as Molly, unmistakably upset, raises her voice louder than John has ever heard coming from her mouth. 

“What next Sherlock? Are you going to shout more evidence at me for why we're _so_ well suited. Tell me you been doing genetic compatibility tests or secret sniff tests or something else lacking in any hint of real emotion.”

"Oh Molly, Molly, why are you doing this to yourself?”

No one else in the flat dares speak a work as it appears hell breaks loose between them.

“To myself? You should mean to you, because that's what this is about isn't it? Me **rejecting** you. You've found something you can't get with a pout or throwing a few compliments about and you can't stand it.”

“Why can't you sees sense? Clearly you want someone. Clearly you wanted me for the longest time and now I'm offering myself and you decide I'm _wrong_.”

Some of the anger drops away from her tone as she replies more softly, yet still firmly, to him to dissuade him from thinking there's something inherently bad about him. John thinks it's more than Sherlock deserves in this moment but it's exactly in line with how he knows Molly to be, compassionate, especially when it matters most and even in the face of others' mistakes lesser people would have too much pride to overlook.

“No Sherlock, **you** are not wrong, you're...just _you_ and I can see now that's not right for me. I thought I wanted you and I was wrong. You don't do people or romance, I'm not even sure you do happy and I want to be happy. I want someone who wants me, not someone who figures I'll do. This isn't about logic, you don't deduce who to care about, you can't force it to happen just because it... makes sense, to you.”

John catches Mrs. Hudson pursing her lips, with an accompanying crease of her eyes and reckons she's thinking the same as he – how unfortunate it is that Sherlock has got it so wrong if what he's saying, in the moments he isn't replying sharply in a backlash against Molly's refusal, is heartfelt. Apparently if he's going to go out with a bang he's dead set on the full shebang of fireworks though, judging on what he spits out next.

“If you believe that, then tell me _why_ did you sign up for one of those godawful dating sites that professes a scientific method of matching people?”

John rolls his eyes, then rubs his hand over them and sighs. Molly's voice goes back up an octave or two as the rightful rage returns with Sherlock's comment.

“You..! You've been spying on me? How dare you.”

She fumes. He says nothing. Why does he say nothing, John wonders, as it only allows Molly's anger to build up. There is no denial and no apology.

“It would be too good to be true if I never saw your arrogant face again,” she decries suddenly. 

With that the kitchen vista splits up, Molly rushing out to fetch her coat and Sherlock merely moving to vaguely more visible position that was essentially, for those other than John at Sherlock's end of the table, hiding him behind the screen to one side of the arch.

“Thank you John, for the lovely evening." she says, slipping her coat on in a hurry, "I'm sorry if I spoilt it a little, but I think we can probably agree whose fault that is. Goodnight,” Molly said sincerely to him, a tone switched off quickly as she pointedly addressed Sherlock, though she did not face him. With finality and some amount of restrained venom that implied it was anything but good, her last words were “and goodbye.”

John let out a deep breath he hadn't realised he was holding and took in the blank stares of the others guests. Definitely eventful. He considered how best to disperse the tension, as he watched Sherlock standing abruptly upright on the spot. Previous actions had betrayed him to be drunk, which John didn't doubt he had played up to, but could in no way be untrue with the amounts of alcohol consumed on so little to eat. Not drunk enough to sway or slur anymore. Sherlock did however look far from collected, pensive though in an altogether more confused manner than he usually bore. 

“Anyone for tea? Or a nightcap?”

This was precisely the social cue that precipitated Sherlock storming to his room, evening niceties done with, and strangely without a demand for his own tea. Mrs Hudson and her friend declined, opting for scones downstairs – away from all the drama, probably to discuss it - and John found himself shuffling Amber off with a brief kiss and promise to ring tomorrow, more concerned about what his friend had gotten himself into than how his girlfriend viewed the spectacle. 

Five minutes later he paused outside Sherlocks door, with two large cups of tea, intending to persuade him of the importance of sobering up the night before the hangover presented itself. No sound at all. Not talking to himself. Not playing his violin. Possibly in his mind palace or, John could only hope, Sherlock wasn't thinking for once, was asleep or had given up on the problem. 

It seemed disingenuous to refer to Molly Hooper as a problem. It implied she was solvable, malleable, which unfortunately fit entirely with what Sherlock probably thought of them all, the normal people; as easy to manipulate. He'd failed this time though, failed several times now where she was concerned, and Sherlock couldn't see why. One failed scheme begot another and another, compounding his emotional error.

It was sad, to see Sherlock not get _it,_ pushing away a woman who had been a tentative friend, and all for the sake of a challenge. John got why, typical Sherlock motivation. He did not like to be viewed as inexperienced or unknowledgeable in any area, and this was some misguided foray into one of the few undiscovered territories for him. Sherlock wanted to prove he could do “relationships” and he was attempting to do it on his terms, controlled and analytical, and it hadn't occurred to him it wasn't as easy as it looked from an objective viewpoint or that mistakes of this nature got people seriously hurt without there being dramatic things like affairs or murders.

“There's tea outside your door. Twice as much to cancel out the wine. Don't bother to thank me, just drink it and don't wake me up complaining you're hungover.”

* * *

 

John slept surprisingly well for the aftermath of such a disaster, aided dually by his own alcohol consumption and the fact Sherlock had been good enough not to disturb the night further in any way.

Shuffling to get breakfast with a hint of a headache John is grateful to see the mug outside Sherlock's room empty this morning. He sticks his head in the fridge and realises just the same as he had the night before when putting it away, that there's a humongous dish of Tiramisu to be eaten up on short order. Dessert for breakfast seems almost sensible when it's a matter of preventing waste. Even so, there's far too much for one man. 

He puts a bowl outside Sherlock's room, along with coffee this time and some crackers with mild cheese for good measure in case of a dodgy stomach. Popping down to Mrs. Hudson's he lets her know there's more Tiramisu than you can shake a leg at and to help herself, before he ambles to work. Molly isn't the furthest person from his mind that day, but as he tends to patients at the surgery he pushes her from his thoughts, futilely wishing Sherlock might be doing the same.

* * *

 

When he gets home Sherlock's portion of Tiramisu is unconsumed, looking deflated in the bowl and definitely going to need chucking away after so long out of the fridge. The coffee mug and the plate are empty however. A small victory.

John cooks himself some pasta, and an extra portion in case Sherlock surfaces, lamenting it in comparison to the previous nights showcase of cookery. He needs to work out how to get that to happen more often, the amazing cooking that is, without such off base motivations for it from Sherlock. In the face of Sherlock's skills John decides not to offer any of his to his flatmate, but stows the spare in the fridge any way. 

He shouldn't be surprised when the leftover are there the next day. There is, however, more washing up than before in the form of mugs and used teabags litter the crockery John hadn't got to cleaning up himself. Maybe Sherlock isn't eating properly without prompting, but at the very least is not subjecting himself to the risk of dehydration. A small mercy.

John figures it's worth a try to leave out cheese and crackers again, the one thing Sherlock had deigned to eat previously. Again they disappear. Tea, cheese and crackers, with the morning variation in coffee, seems to go down well for meals a couple of times a day and this routine continues undisturbed – like John's sleep oddly is during this time - for about another week. 

It's at that point John is getting particularly concerned with not having seen nor heard Sherlock in the period since Molly stormed out of their flat. He's heard noises from the bedroom of text messages received but no apparent reaction. When Lestrade sends _him_ a confused message asking why Sherlock is deeming an unidentified torso dumped in a pristine bloodless swimming pool a non-starter, that's when he has to intervene. 

He reaches for the handle, a little afraid of what what state Sherlock is going to be in or what mad scheme he's hatching in there that he could step into if he asks about how things are going. If Sherlock had just given up it would be over by now, things would retain some cracked sense of the things as usual. That he'd ignored a case that surely warranted a rating of 7, or possibly an 8, signals something is very wrong and John means to set this right or at least find out what's going on in that bedroom of his to explain why Sherlock barely retreats from it. 

The handle turns easily - not locked himself away then - and with a gentle push the door swings open. Entering Sherlock's domain John finds him lying on his back in the bed, arms folded up with his fingers laced behind his head, looking a mix of somewhat relaxed for him in bodily pose and also intensely focused with his stare narrowed on a completely inconsequential spot on the ceiling. At least John thinks it's inconsequential, careening his gaze to it he can't see anything of note, nothing off colour or marked out as different from the rest of the expanse of murky smoke damaged paint. 

The single disturbing feature of the room, apart from the not-that-unusual lack of responsiveness from Sherlock, is one that John doesn't think he could have imagined in a million years and which proves in several ways how right he was to be concerned for his friend. His mind boggles as he approaches it, marvelling at the artistry of the model and simultaneously freaking out because it isn't, _can't_ , be part of a plot to win Molly over and if that's the reality here, it worries him a great deal more.


	8. Actions better than words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Speedily betaread by Nocturnias, for which I am very grateful. Apologies for how long it took to update, still got major health issues, but hoping the last two chapters will come soon after this seeing as they are mostly written already. 
> 
> Big thanks to all those who have stuck with this fic and given encouragement.

"100th scale." 

Sherlock provides that information freely, said matter-of-fact, as if details are what is confusing John at this exact moment.

"I wasn't wondering. You've gone crackers. Literally" he says in disbelief, turning to inspect Sherlock with more scrutiny. Then he turns back to the model, unable to stop himself, he needs to know how it is even possible to get semblance of structure.

"Why this?" John demands as he peers at the dome and resists poking the cocktail stick spike onto.

"Why ever not?" Sherlock says, like he's merely playing devil's advocate rather than defending a conscious choice he's made.

"Apart from the health risk, you mean. I don't think imitating water and mosaic tiles by carving minuscule lines in the mould on the cheese is recommended for your lungs, let alone your, I don't know, dare I say it, sanity."

"I'm perfectly fine," Sherlock retorts churlishly, as he sits up in the background, no doubt already bored with this line of questioning, but John is far from finished.

"Hmm, right." he says, straightening himself up and swinging round to look at Sherlock straight on, to really inspect his reaction, "Says the man who hasn't eaten in how long? Who's made a 100th scale replica of the Taj Mahal out of crackers and cheese-"

Sherlock interrupts expertly, adding his apparently important additional info, "And coffee granule paste, the staining is perfect for detailing." Of course he's leaving out all the actually salient pieces, what John not only wants to know but probably needs to know too, to be sure Sherlock really is fine.

"-and I don't know what else. I don't even want to think about how it glues together."

"With glue, John. Don't be so puerile."

"Is there some..." he can't quite find the right words here, for this particular and very much unforeseen circumstance, so he resorts to waving hands as his brain catches up to his mouth, " _reasonable_ explanation for this? Is it her favourite? "

"Whose favourite?" Sherlock replies starkly, either truly confused or truly good at playing so. 

John can barely believe him, regardless of which it is, every sentence coming from Sherlock's lips proving harder and harder to process. 

"Oh I dunno, the woman you've been courting unsuccessfully for nearly 6 months. Molly, that's **who**."

"Don't be absurd," Sherlock bites back, scowling, "Her favourite building is at Bletchley Park. She went there with her father shortly before he died."

His mouth drops and John pauses to take a deep breath before he carries on. 

"Me? _Me_ , don't be absurd? I'm going to pretend you didn't say that and that I didn't see that _beautiful_ monstrosity," he says pointing emphatically to the elephant in the room that is only marginally less shocking than that time they had an actual elephant appear. 

"And I'm coming back in, a while, when you're making more sense. After you've eaten something."

With that he stalks out of the bedroom. Right after he's grabbed his jacket, he thinks to shout back an addendum of "...but none of **that**!"

 

 

A pint at The Beehive with Greg later and John feels he's replenished his fortitude enough to cope with whatever Sherlock throws at him next. But he decides to enter armed with Mrs. Hudson and a plate of jam scones Sherlock isn't liable to refuse. 

John motions through the door to the 'exhibit'. Her face crumples and all she says is "Oh, Sherlock" as if it was a sign to pity him in his misery and not to fear for his mental health more than the other 364 days previously. Still, she seems to have a plan as she goes about dual commiserating Sherlock with platitudes and haranguing him to partake of her wholesome baked goods.

 

 

John almost wants to put it on the blog with a headline, but it's hardly his usual fare and he doesn't like to think of how he'd be accused of being jealous. He takes pictures anyway. For posterity, he tells himself. For proof is what they turn out to be because when he peers in the next day the whole thing is gone with nary a crumb to show for it.

He invites Mycroft over for a nice cup of Assam – or so he hopes Mycroft will deem it, he's found Holmes' tastes are hard to predict - and he slightly spitefully hopes Sherlock will choose elevenses to swoop back in and witness the spectacle. John says nothing until the tea is poured, almost enacting a ceremony in serving it precisely, and he is surprised Mycroft never calls him out, merely waits for the reason for their detente to be revealed.

"Do you know what you brother constructed in his bedroom?"

"John, what is the purpose of this conversation?"

He should have expected that response. There's little Mycroft doesn't know, so the more pertinent point is what Mycroft thinks of it all, what insight he might have where John is missing something.

"To find out if you have a smidgeon of care for what's happening to your brother perhaps?"

"Neither Sherlock's artistic or romantic proclivities are a matter I think deserving my attention. Unless you have reason to believe they endanger the nation."

Mycroft sits sipping tea after that, entirely too smug for John's liking as he mulls over the statement. 

Like Irene is the hint. Mycroft is comparing this to Irene and John has to admit there was little in common with this to the near pining Sherlock had done over the dominatrix. John just isn't sure if the comment is designed to highlight how small the thing with Molly is compared to Sherlock's interest in Irene, or, how large this is could be to throw him completely off game in more insidious ways, with this simply the radical culmination.

 

 

Things appear to go back to normal with relative ease. Sherlock acts like nothing is wrong. The only permanent change is to the schedule they keep for visiting Bart's. It doesn't miss John's notice they are never there at the same time as Molly. He wonders at first if Sherlock is attempting reverse psychology on the poor pathologist. Denying her his presence, trying to draw her back in, but after a whole month of it his faith in that theory falters and he starts to think Sherlock may actually be honouring her wishes to never see him again. 

When Sherlock instigates a trip to the morgue with the phrase "Once more unto the breach" it crystallizes a thought that had passed his mind in recent weeks. That Molly might not be the only one Sherlock had hurt. 

John couldn't recall a time when the woman hadn't been about fawning at least a little over the detective and these days she had recoiled her adoration, initially aiming for indifference when the trouble had begun but sublimating it more into an intense disapproval of Sherlock for good reason, which his actions had cultivated far too well to the demise of their relationship, whatever it had been when it had imploded in their living room. 

Sherlock had once remarked to him genius needed an audience, unaware of how true that rang for himself. John knew where he fit, a friend yes, as slow to admit it as Sherlock had been at first but also audience; someone to be amazed, to share the excitement with, someone who didn't tell him to piss off. That statement in the cab years ago had revealed more of himself than John imagined Sherlock ever intended - he didn't have many people who wanted to be around him and now that count was one less, something he could imagine Sherlock berating himself for internally. 

John hated how it had turned out and if he was honest, he could have done more. He could have taken Sherlock more seriously, helped him, or at least tried to steer him a bit more steadily. He could have been there for Molly as more than just an ear to the latest mishap, which he'd found too amusing at the time, happy to share stories of Sherlockian weirdness but not really hearing what it had been doing to any of them except to place blame squarely on his misguided friend. Sherlock wasn't the only one who'd done wrong. He'd watched and waited for it to unfold.

 

 

She looked to him firmly right off the bat as he stepped through the doors, making him feel inherently sheepish. There was shock, followed by a hardening of her face very unlike the Molly he was used to.

"Don't say anything."

"But -"

She steps away from the body but not far, not placing the bone saw down indicating she doesn't intend to spend long addressing the chat he'd come to have. She squints from behind the blood splattered visor and teases it up with her wrist so she can see him properly.

"You're going to apologise for him and it'll sound reasonable and I'll want to forgive him. But I...he isn't here himself, is he. Just like I thought. One minute I'm important and the next I'm dismissed, irrelevant. Next case. This is why I didn't say yes and you know it, so... so don't try to make it better. This isn't yours to fix."

John sighs, looking at the exposed guts of the body to avoid her gaze. He'd wanted to fix things, to make up for everything he hadn't thought to do at the time it had gone down but he'd known it was too late. Molly's speech simply confirms it. His visit acts more as a sign he wishes it were different than anything else, that he is sorry even if Sherlock may not deign to say it. 

"I guess not. I just, I...I worry," he stutters it out partially, the admission heavy in his throat.

"About me or him?" she asks sharply and he realises he probably deserves that a little. Sherlock may have been avoiding her for two months out of embarrassment, lack of interest or possibly his own silent form of apology but John hasn't had any excuse; just that his priorities rested with Sherlock first and foremost. 

"Both of you. I don't want to see it ruin your friendship."

He sees her posture slump a touch as she lets her guard down finally and he smiles briefly despite himself, grateful for the sign she probably isn't going to hold a real grudge against him. 

"I'm not sure anymore, if that's what it was. Bit hard to tell with him isn't it. Maybe I was fooling myself."

She sounds resigned to thinking the worst of Sherlock and it saddens him, but he can't justify persuading her otherwise, not on the evidence they have.

"Sherlock's the fool here."

Her mouth crinkles at the corners as she almost smiles at the sentiment, but she pulls the visor down quickly and steps back up to the body, signalling the end of their conversation. Just as well, he thinks, because he has no clue what else he could say to her.

"Goodbye John."

 

 

"Why?" he asks bluntly when he returns to 221b, assuming Sherlock will know where he has been and implicitly what he is asking about. He's not obtuse unless he wants to be.

There is a silence, punctuated only by the hissing of the Bunsen burner, but Sherlock nevertheless does answer him after a pause. "There's a peace to such work. Body and mind need to be in perfect unison. Considered thought meets precision of hand and the result is." 

For once Sherlock misunderstands. He'd been asking him about the misguided adventure with Molly and yet the answer doesn't fit. He stands motionless in the doorway, coat still on, as he goes through the possibilities. Eventually he does latch onto what he assumes Sherlock is talking about.

"Even if it is a half mouldy tribute to one of the few places you've never visited."

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asks plainly, placing the beaker on the table in some odd surrender to the discussion, not sounding as annoyed as normally he would be referencing the man who potentially gave sensitive information on him. 

John takes that to mean he can soften his approach, shrugging off his coat before heading to the sanctuary of his chair, where he kicks off his shoes.

"No. You don't have India in any of your passports. Nostalgic isn't it, to keep all of them? Even the one from your teens."

Sherlock is staring into the flame in front of him as he answers in a singularly detached tone. Avoidance in a manner, however he's still engaged in this sudden explanation John hadn't expected from him. 

"They're a record of my travels. Frees up space for more important data."

John knows Sherlock likes to tie things up in data. Ordered by usefulness, categorising like with like, filed away in his big old network of a head. He's so busy pushing it into place, storing it piece by piece that John is certain that's why he misses some types of connections – Sherlock sees far more than most people process but all too often he completely misses the obvious, right in front of him. 

"I see, _data_. Like the details of an inaccurate Taj Mahal? One that happens to match the illustration in a kid’s book of fairy tales."

Sherlock's eyes suddenly break free of the meditative trap the fire had provided, to bore deep into his. 

"How?" 

He can't keep the grin from breaking out around his reply, more than a little self-satisfied at finding the answer to his personal mystery, "I know how to use search by image." 

John neglects to mention his thoughts on it though. What it means that the place not entirely set in reality, from that battered but clearly cherished tome he'd located on the bookshelf, symbolises a place Sherlock hadn't been able to go, a dream that could never be. 


	9. Remember Your Breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Big apologies for anyone who has been waiting an age for an update, if anyone is still reading this fic. Real life, bad health and writer's block all conspired against me and I basically hadn't done any writing in any capacity for the last few years but I hope that'll actually change since the latter doesn't seem to be an issue now.

There are months of the year that harrow her. The summer is hot and dry in the day, and only marginally less so at night, the heat endless. Yet when she steps outside post-night shift it tends towards monsoon rain, a downpour upon her that she relishes. She's frustrated with the rut she's in, can't find it in herself to cry and get past the sadness, the sudden loneliness, but the weather conspires to do it for her.

The ratio of interesting autopsies to the run of the mill ones balances out to what she would by chance receive. The tendrils of Sherlocks interference recede from her life. She doesn't see Sherlock during this time and now John rarely visits Barts either, likely wary of his contribution to the whole situation. She wonders if Sherlock blew up at him over his visit, his attempt to apologise for his own part in it. Some part of her likes to think so, that Sherlock would be annoyed at John's interference in whatever plan he might have next, before she reminds herself how pathetic it is to wish that were the case. Sherlock doesn't care about her, has ignored her for months since her rejection of him. All he'd cared about was the game and winning her was a goal, she was never the prize in that scenario.

Sometimes she sees John nattering with Mike in the cafeteria and knows he comes to pick up reports on the more mysterious deaths she deals with. Mike occasionally has follow up tests to request, tests she doubts he thought up himself. This is what life was meant to be like, she thinks – normal hours, appreciation and acceptance from her colleagues, time to do her own research.

What it feels like is the slow drawl of a job well done that leaves her nevertheless unsatisfied. At lunchtime she occasionally surfs the web, half-heartedly considering a skydive or death defying stunt for charity. Her heart never races anymore and there is never anyone aroundto share her discoveries with, much less debate theories with. These are empty months, of drudgery. Months she is at a loss of how to fill, where normalcy had never bothered her previously.

 

* * *

 

 

She spends her Christmas away from her remarried mother and the extended family of more-or-less strangers she isn't sure she likes. She's earnt the right to enjoy her holiday, but she can't bring herself to bluntly tell them she doesn't want to see them so she excuses herself for work, taking the shift no one else wants. At least it should leave her a more enjoyable, family free, New Years to herself. She books a flight spur of the moment to get away for then, trying to inject some adventurousness into her life.

When she gets to Budapest it is cold but beautiful. Pricy too given her rashness at booking late in the month but she takes it in her stride. She picks the most unusual places to go, determined to make it a memorable trip, something good to hold onto from the year. She visits a hermits church in a cave, the hidden library in a library, the island castle that's a mishmash of architectural styles she can't take her eyes off, the creepy labyrinth under Buda Castle, the pharmacy and medical museums that she knows would be too squeamish for some and the pub you can leave your own mark upon.

Her penultimate stop, on New Years Eve, is to the giant hour glass located in a park off Heroes' Square. She waits as four people struggle to rotate the Time Wheel using metal cables. Eventually they manage and she sees the grains of glass fall down into the bottom reservoir. She sits and watches the flow of time, pondering everything she has seen and felt in her short time away. The opera cruise on the Danube later that night is what she tells her friends about how she celebrated in style, getting out that red dress she's never had occasion to wear before, but this is how she enjoys the day.

She still feels like something is missing though and she has the awful feeling she knows exactly who. Who it is she wishes she could share it all with, even if only via messages, is exactly who she can't anymore. The random photos of curiosities she'd enjoyed from the museums remain on her phone, unsent.

 

* * *

 

It is the beginning of January when Sherlock comes along to the morgue again, demanding she wheel out all five bodies she's responsible for. She knows of no connection between them all, but does as requested and watches him turn over their palms each and every one, with John milling about in the background. They're both quiet, tiptoeing about this abrupt change coming from more than half a year of avoiding her. John looks sheepish but she's not about to break the ice.

Following that Sherlock comes into the lab and morgue about as often as she'd expect for cases, occasionally alone but never to see her alone, always with purpose however obscure. He also does nothing at all to orchestrate her invitation to anymore dinner parties even though she overhears John inviting Mike to one on one occasion.

Things more or less return to normal. Sort of like the old kind of normal she'd dearly missed over the last year, but not quite exactly that either. The new normal that develops for them has less talking and rather more tact when he does speak. She finds their interactions are much less personal, even though she'd never thought of their previous discussions as being so at the time and she still misses that despite knowing things can't just magically return to the way they were overnight. She doesn't want it to entirely, she likes that he clearly remembers and is making some effort. It's not an outright apology but Sherlock's pointedly saying nothing somehow does have meaning given all that he could say. He is professional. He doesn't attempt to woo her anymore. He's finally doing what she asked him to, and not simply by ignoring her.

 

* * *

 

 

Slowly things change. Some of his old habits creep into his behaviour and she isn't as bothered as maybe she should be. He returns to how she expects Sherlock to act, to who she knew before all the madness started and it's comforting in a way to have that back. It's better in a way too, because she is no longer awkward around him, she can appreciate the good parts of association with him all the more.

He starts asking for coffee out of the blue occasionally, as if wanting it at a drop of a hat like he had used to – 50% of the time she obliges, making sure he can tell it is because she got herself a cup too.

He turns up near the end of her shift, still expecting help for hours on end, at least once a month. But only once a month, maximum, she keeps a count and the relevance of how infrequently it happens is not lost on her. Sometimes she brings him coffee, crisps and a chocolate bar from the vending machine during late night sessions, as a random unspoken thank you for the new semi-considerate habit he's formed. She only does this when she knows he really ought to eat and hasn't. He still isn't all that good at taking care of his body and he still doesn't like reminders to eat whilst busy but he accepts the food without a word.

He also eventually starts to pout and faux flirt for bodies and body parts - just like old times - but never seriously enough to concern her. These days it feels different though, less like the manipulation it blatantly once was and almost like he is making himself vulnerable to her by doing so. More like it's staged for her benefit but with no expectation other than the very obvious scientific favour asked. In those moments she feels like she has power over him in an odd manner and she doesn't know what to make of that.

Often he lures her as a spectator in his unorthodox experiments – one other change is that he doesn't complain when she records them, takes notes, and writes up papers; he merely refuses any credit since he also refuses to do any deeper analysis or studies than the case requires. She makes sure to at least thank and reference him as inspiration.

They are both possibly (and it's hard to be sure with Sherlock really) getting more relaxed in each others company, more accepting of how they each are as people. There is push and pull, the type that is an encouraging kind of status quo, and moreover life is more entertaining. She gets less sleep and she doesn't care.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the things to do in Budapest are real (at least according to internet research), although I'm not sure you can still tour the labyrinth, nor am I clear when exactly in the day on NYE the Time Wheel gets reset so for fic purposes I'm assuming sometime in the day makes more sense than midnight given it's sort of dangerous to rotate a huge granite/glass construction 180 degrees. If anyone has actual knowledge on those things do say.


	10. One Thing I Don't Need

John – and she's sure it's him doing so this time, phone call, difficult to fake - invites her to their Christmas gathering. This is the first time since that fateful dinner party she's entered the flat and she finds 221B is returned to its chaos now; Mrs Hudson has to move five stacks of assorted stationary to make room for everyone to sit down comfortably.

Sherlock stands, gazing out of the window. He doesn't take any wine, flashing John evidence of four nicotine patches in use as his excuse not to partake of the mulled wine. Midway through the party, he abruptly picks up his violin and starts a sweet, if haunting, tune. No one seems sure what to make of this. Sherlock is facing the window, facing no one and possibly playing for no one but himself. He could have forgotten anyone else is around for all they know.

Lestrade gets guessing composers. Sherlock neither confirms nor denies any of the names, simply plays, with an increasing passion building in the song. What began tender and a touch broken evolves into a racy whirlwind of string and it sounds like nothing she has ever heard. Lestrade stops his musings, looking thoughtful. John has been so all through out the song, eagle eyed upon Sherlock like he's seriously contemplating the meaning of this.

“Bravo, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson claps once it is over, “Not very Christmassy but unique, that's for sure.”

With that Sherlock leaves them be, retiring to his room without a word of goodbye. He hasn't in fact spoken a single word in the time anyone has been there, which she thinks could be an attempt not to ruin the cheer by uttering any socially ill-advised observations.

Mrs Hudson waves it off as typical Sherlock and goes to the tree, a complaint about her hip as she bends down. John and Lestrade rush to help but Mrs Hudson bats them off, insisting she can manage. The compromise of a chain for handing out presents is formed, with Mrs Hudson staying kneeling down now she's there and passing the gifts one by one to the men who in turn pass them in the right direction along the rough circle of guests in the living room. There are more presents being passed around than people, some for people not here right now – she spies one for Harry and there is no one of that name attending the shindig. She is pleasantly surprised to find one with her name on it.

 

_To Molly,_

_Happy Christmas,_

_From John and Sherlock_

 

The card is obviously written by John. Though it bears his name it is not Sherlock's signature.

“Go on, unwrap them why don't you,” prompts Mrs Hudson, already well on the way to having hers opened.

There's some weak resistance to the notion but Mrs Hudson is insistent. Molly has never been bothered about having her presents early, she'd always liked to save them for the day, but she _is_ curious what's inside. There's a care evident in the wrapping that makes her not want to spoil the pretty paisley silver foil paper and she can't bring herself to fully unwrap it. Instead, she delicately unties the dark blue ribbon bow ontop and peels some of the selotape off, unfolding the flap on one side carefully. Anticipation builds as she slides the box partially out of the wrapping and reveals...a Boots toiletry set.

If Sherlock were in the room he would likely find it hard not to comment on the practicality of the gift. Ginger scented, a strong scent, powerful enough to overcome the distasteful disinfectant stench that tended to cling to her from Barts. She could imagine his voice, not deliberately scornful but coming out biting anyway, _'It should do a better job of masking the smell than what you tend to pick'_.

She looks up to see John studying her. Depending on how long he's been doing so he probably knows she's disappointed at the gift.

“Thanks, I needed more bubble bath, ” she lies and smiles, faking the gratitude she ought to feel whilst she's thinking social nicety does indeed get bothersome and envying Sherlock that he so often gets away with lacking any tact.

What she'd really like to say is why did you write his name on it, why did you make me think he cared. John smiles back at her and seemingly genuine, says “I thought you might like that.” Problem is she doesn't know if he's lying, whether it was actually Sherlock's suggestion for the sensible reason she has assumed or if it is really John's lacklustre gift buying abilities.

 

* * *

 

The present sits under her tree at home, the wrapping crisp around the edges of the box, the same as it had been. It may be silly but she doesn't consider it proper to leave an unwrapped present under her tree so she'd slid it back into the then unspoilt paper, taped the side she'd opened and redone the bow on it with a flourish.

Toby likes to rub up against it as the one gift with good corners meaning it is rather more loosely wrapped come Christmas day, including a multitude of scratches on the once pristine foil. He's having another good go at it, searching for the illusive best scratching angle, when she sits down next to him, sipping white wine. Cross legged on the floor in her pajamas she notices something odd about where it's torn – it's not exposing the expected plastic box underneath but some other kind of paper. She kneels in front of the tree, putting her wine down and picks up the present, hastily untying the bow and scraping the torn wrapping paper away from around the package.

Toby loses all interest in his prior pursuit now there's a dangling ribbon above him but her cat is foiled in his attempt to catch it by the parchment that falls out on top of him, sliding from between the double layer of wrapping she hadn't spotted previously.

Toby mews at her in indignation before he shakes them off him and jumps for the ribbon above him again. She stares at the sheets resting on her carpet. Thick composers stationary, notes scrawled in fountain pen. The pages are devoid of lyrics. Plain but for a title “Carrisma”.

She gathers them up and trundles along unsteadily to her keyboard, pushing aside the cover. A flick of a switch later and she is rustily playing the song a few notes in a row, building it up. It takes her longer than she'd like to work out the first few bars. When she does she recognises it. Another few bars and she can tell why.

This is the piece he had played for them. His own composition. Hidden for her eyes only. He hadn't hinted, he hadn't stayed to see for sure she would find it. There wasn't any guarantee she would have noticed it nestled in between the layers of wrapping, she could have just as easily torn it up if she'd opened the gift with abandon. The significance was for him in the giving of it, not the reception of the gift. That was the meaning of the song John would miss through no fault of his own.

Molly could honestly say she'd never had a gift like this and probably wouldn't ever again. So she sat and sipped her wine, and teased out the song on her cheap keyboard. It couldn’t touch the beauty of hearing the piece on his violin, played by him no less, but it invigorated the memory in her mind.

 

* * *

 

 

When he comes into the lab next, a few days into January, he is all business. Mainly upon Mrs. Morgan who faces a hammer – literally, to check whether residual indentations left on the clothing would be enough for identification of the make of tool. Molly preps the appropriate room and has to force him to wear a splatter guard. He is done in 45 minutes, sauntering through the morgue stripping his latex gloves off.

“How would Tuesday at 7pm would work for you?”

“Excuse me?”

The momentary bafflement of Sherlock is priceless. There's exasperation at her vagueness merging into wonder and shock, replaced a split second later with his deadpan calmness. So he's not unflappable then. Just as well she didn't get her camera out as it's gone before she could snap a picture and that would have been rude of her, as well as shown her hand. He throws the gloves perfectly into the bin to one side of him without looking to aim and proceeds to place his hands in his pockets, swivelling around and ambling back to her.

“Why the change of heart?” he asks and she thinks she can hear confusion in his tone, mixed with the curiosity.

“I made a New Years resolution.”

She leaves it at that.

“What fortune cookie phrase has precipitated the formation of a rule to live your life by for, oh, let's say, the next 28 days? Statistically speaking. 80% of resolutions don't survive to February.”

He casts his eyes down, feigning interest in the body below her since she knows there is nothing at all remarkable about the corpse. She smirks a little at seeing him probably nervous and can't resist a touch of teasing.

“Oh Sherlock, are you worried I'll change my mind and give up on you?”

“Are you likely to?” he replies, snapping his head up abruptly to search her eyes.

He seems keen for the answer, twitchy as she pauses before she replies.

“I don't know, you tell me. It half depends on you. Takes two to tango.”

He pauses himself for a few seconds and she wonders if he understands what she is implying. It can't be like before, but then she doesn't think either of them are the same as they were most of two years ago when he'd first gotten the idea into his head that they should date.

All he says is, “Under no circumstances am I dancing.”

Things are different now by default, she feels like he listens to her, treats her equally. If anyone has the upper hand here she reckons it is her for a change.

“I guess we'll have to see,” she replies, smirking more obviously at him, enjoying making him squirm just a bit.

That doesn't go unnoticed by him clearly. It results in Sherlock stepping closer, invading her personal space under the guise of peering over her shoulder at her autopsy.

“See things you may, if this goes anywhere, but not dancing” he says leaning in further to practically whisper it in her ear, “ _Never_ dancing.”

Her breath catches at the feel of his hot breath on her neck as he stands so incredibly close to her. She has to force herself to count to ten and keep calm, to not turn around to face him because if she does she knows what she wants to do and that would be moving too fast. Not to mention unprofessional if anyone were to walk in and find her snogging Sherlock over a dead body.

“Let's start with dinner and a movie shall we – you do **do** films don't you?” she asks, not actually sure of the answer and trying to steer the conversation back to light and teasing.

She senses him step back and twists to face him now the temptation has passed. She swears she sees a flush upon his cheeks before he quickly turns away. Sherlock switches to pacing the lab and studiously avoids looking at her.

“On occasion I watch them. It's rarer I enjoy them,” he admits dryly.

The reply isn't exactly encouraging. Still, she has a plan and she intends to present it to him, see what he thinks.

“There's one my friend was raving about, has Robert Downey Jr in.”

She looks up. There's no change in his pacing, no pointed glare at the suggestion so maybe it isn't a lost cause.

“That could be bearable,” Sherlock says laconically, “But first, I must know, what was the resolution you spoke of?”

She glances up again from the notes she's taking and finally he is looking back at her from across the room, able to meet her gaze again. His scrutiny is fierce, like he thinks the reason will be shown upon her face if not in her words should she feel compelled to answer him. Sometimes she still gets that deer in the headlights feeling just as she used to around him. The difference is it doesn't last anymore. She swallows nervously but she holds her ground with him.

“You'll have to figure it out. I'm not telling. It wouldn't come true if I did and I think you have a vested interest in me not breaking it.”

“That's wishes, not resolutions,” he corrects.

“Who said it was _only_ a resolution.”

He scoffs at that, breaking his stare momentarily and when his eyes return to her she reads fondness in them, replacing the intimidating intensity they'd had.

“I'm leaving before I discover you have any more superstitious beliefs that challenge the wisdom of this venture. The cab will arrive at 7pm sharp tomorrow, I don't abide tardiness.”

“You mean you don't like waiting...” she dares to point out, but the door swung shut and she found she was speaking to an empty morgue.

Few people had the patience to wait, generally only the dead ones waited here for her and they had no choice. Everyone else in her life, everyone who _was_ alive, rushed by. Including Sherlock. She'd waited for him to notice her, she'd waited for him to care and then when she'd stopped waiting finally, his own wait had begun, along with an entirely new one for herself. She'd expected he'd give up, waited paradoxically for his interest in her - in the _challenge of her_ \- to wane. When there was the drop back to his 'normal' self and behaviours it seemed to be the inevitable indicator the chase was of no consequence to him.

Deep down perhaps she'd been waiting to believe he'd meant any of it. So when it had seemed his endeavour was finished, she'd felt a twinge of sadness at the apparent proof of his deception, wondering if she would regret passing the chance over, and yet it hadn't been over really. Sherlock had been biding his time, patient for the right moment if it would ever come and being uncharacteristically not pushy about what he wanted, surprised when his gesture had made a difference.

She wondered if organising the date tomorrow was a mistake, it didn't leave much time for her to get ready after her shift ended. No, it was better like this, to get on with it. Life was for living. No more letting it pass her by. Dating Sherlock was a risk. It might backfire tomorrow, three dates in, a month or years down the line. If so, she could say she'd tried, she could say she'd been there and done that and move on with, hopefully, no regrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And that is it. I hope the ending is enjoyable. I know some will undoubtedly want more than where they are left here but I feel like it ends on a good note. I have vague plans for a follow-up that is also a casefic but I should learn my lesson and not post WIPs, meaning if it comes it will only be once it's all written.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Turn Around (Sherlock/Molly fanmix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/912065) by [missyvortexdv (Purpleyin)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purpleyin/pseuds/missyvortexdv), [Purpleyin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purpleyin/pseuds/Purpleyin)




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